Tempest
by Saelia
Summary: The famous letter never reached its target. It is now 1814, and Elizabeth Bennet is desperate, desperate enough to seek out the man she scorned and accept a proposal from three years before... even if Mr. Darcy is not quite the man she remembers. AU, Regency.
1. Grey Skies

_**Tempest**_

* * *

**I.**** Grey**** Skies**  
_the clouds that never clear_

**-~O~-**

**October 1814**

_I can do this_, Elizabeth Bennet reassured herself, smoothing the waterlogged folds of her black crepe gown. Failure, after all, was not an option.

The rain splattered against her ruined coiffure, thick strands of chestnut hair spilling out of their careful arrangement as she hurried down the pebbled path towards the manse looming in the distance. Wind slammed into her with each step; the biting cold spread through her drenched garments as her teeth chattered. Once, she thought bitterly, she would have had a parasol, or even a hired carriage. If things were different, she could have grieved for her father, mourned him as he deserved, instead of being forced into this act of desperation.

Had it only been her, she would have taken her chances at finding employment as a governess or even a servant, eking out a meager but respectable living. But she could not condemn her sisters and mother to weeks of living on the streets while they searched for work. Especially when she, and only she, was at fault for their dismal circumstances.

Gritting her teeth, Elizabeth reached up to the ornate brass rings that guarded the entrance to the imposing stone residence and knocked.

The harsh drumming of rain surrounded her as she stood, spine iron straight despite the chill deep in her bones, each second both fleeting and interminable. She did not _want _the heavy oaken doors to creak open – and the wretched conversation that must follow – yet nor could she stomach the idea that she would be left outside waiting in the cold, the rest of her family scrambling for a place to stay, a way to survive. Desperation pulsed within her, burning and scorching all it touched but failing to keep her warm against the onslaught of the weather. She closed her eyes against the cool liquid trailing down her pale skin and waited.

At last, a glimmer of light appeared.

"Is there something you need, Miss?" a liveried manservant inquired brusquely, his disapproval clear as he examined her soaked clothing. She realized she must look a fright: skin pale and tinged-blue with cold, unruly curls escaping the pins that'd sought to hold them in place, dress hem dirty and ragged as a result of trekking through the mud. A choked half-laugh, half-sob rose to her throat at the ridiculousness of it all – once again, she came to his place of residence with skirts filthy and bedraggled, but how different the circumstances from when she had gone to Netherfield to visit Jane three years prior!

"Miss?" the servant repeated.

For a moment, she was tempted to tell him it was a mistake, to walk away and never return. But the images rose to her mind unbidden.

Beautiful, darling Jane, coughing her lungs out as she was forced to bear the weather in spite of her weak constitution. Silly, flighty Lydia, unable to afford even the smallest of trinkets and deprived of any chance of officially coming out and securing the hand of a handsome officer as she'd dreamed. Mary, never to touch the ivory keys of the pianoforte again; Kitty, without any new gowns; and even Mother, wilting away under the twin pressures of poverty and ignominy.

She truly had no choice. She would swallow her pride and throw herself at _his _mercy.

"An audience," she croaked, the words grating in her throat like sandpaper. She coughed and continued with as much dignity as a drenched, penniless young woman trespassing on a grand estate at a strange hour could have: "With Mr. Darcy, please."

He eyed her dubiously from the warmth and dryness of the interior of the building. "A moment."

Water trickled down her forehead into her eyes. She was grateful for it; any tears would at least be disguised by the downpour.

When he returned, it was to grimace at her unapologetically. "Mr. Darcy is indisposed – he is not receiving visitors."

"Isn't he?" she muttered, unsurprised that the haughty, taciturn man she remembered would ignore a woman standing at his doorstep in the rain, at night. "Perhaps his disposition would improve if you told him Miss Elizabeth Bennet is calling."

The doorman hesitated, visibly reluctant.

"Please," she added quietly.

He nodded, and the crack of light vanished again. She fought another shiver as a new gust of wind blasted through the dark.

Suddenly, the door burst open; she was momentarily disoriented by the glow of candlelight. As her eyes adjusted, she realized that the figure at the door was taller and leaner than the manservant who had greeted her, hard, aristocratic features cast into sharp relief by the flickering wall-torches. Her mouth went dry.

"Miss Elizabeth," came the low baritone she had not heard in three years, carrying no small amount of shock. She wished she could make out his face more clearly, to read the expression there. "I did not believe it was truly you – you are shivering."

_On the account of the rain, no doubt – it does affect us lesser mortals_. She bit her tongue to prevent the sharp retort from emerging as she followed him inside to an elegantly furnished drawing room, a fire blazing at the hearth.

"Blankets, Ann," he ordered the maid standing by the fireplace. "Quickly." The girl hastily went to do as asked. Turning, he grasped Elizabeth by the hand and led her to the sofa. She did not complain; the heat of the fireplace, in tandem with the warmth of strong grip on her icy skin, did much to alleviate the chill that had spread through her body.

The maid returned with a stack of quilts that Elizabeth hastily wrapped herself in with numb fingers. There was silence but for the crackling of the fire.

She dared not look at him, yet she could not help but sneak small glances from the corner of her eye. He appeared thinner than she remembered, or perhaps it was his state of undress; she had to fight a blush as she realized that he was only in a shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms lightly dusted with dark hair. There were dark shadows under his eyes, either from the dim lighting or from too little sleep. Yet there was no denying that he was handsome, even more so than in her memory.

That strong profile turned. She dropped her eyes, embarrassed that he had caught her staring. He had no such compunction, taking in her discombobulated state with an utterly unreadable expression.

"I admit I had not expected to see you again," he said slowly, gaze returning to the fire.

Elizabeth gave a little start. "I had not thought that we would meet again, either," she managed to say, heart pounding so hard against her ribcage that she feared she might burst. "But circumstances prove otherwise."

"And what might those circumstances be?"

She cast a quick look around her, taking in the Persian carpet, the ornate papered walls, the gilded furniture – yes, Pemberley was so removed from Longbourne that it was a different world. What had he called her – "a disadvantageous match, with little fortune and the lowest of connections?" Now she no longer even had those. What could she possibly mean to him now? A humiliating reminder of the past? The girl who had spurned him? And that was assuming he still even cared; what was to say that his "ardent love" hadn't been fleeting, a passing fancy, now faded to indifference?

…But Jane…

And _he _was not entirely free of culpability in this matter either as the man who had separated Jane from her Bingley. A spark of the old anger rose within Elizabeth. The worst he could do was to throw her out – and that was where she would end up anyway, if she did not succeed!

"I merely came to ask," Elizabeth said with the brazenness of a woman with nothing left to lose, "if your offer from three years past was still available for the taking."

Darcy froze. She could see the sudden tension in his knuckles, white against the armchair, in the corded muscle of his arms, in the sloping angle of his square jaw. The room felt unbearably quiet and entirely too small. She did not dare to breathe.

When those steel-grey eyes finally met hers, she nearly gasped: they were hard as diamond, not just proud but glittering with an intensity that made her clutch the blankets closer.

"If you come to taunt me, madam, I assure you that my sense of hospitality does not prevent me from seeing you to the door, godforsaken weather outside or no."

She did not know how, but her voice remained miraculously steady in spite of the trembling of her hands. "I speak in earnest."

"Please, elaborate." The harshness of his deep, usually velvet voice belied the politeness of his words. For the first time, Elizabeth was aware of his physical presence; he was so much _larger_, stronger than she was, his hands alone probably capable of circling her neck and squeezing until it snapped. She hid her fear behind a hollow smile.

An arrogant man, prone to emotion, but at least not an indifferent one, which suited her purposes. But an arrogant man would not settle for a wife who sought him purely out of desperation. And, marry she must, for a man like Mr. Darcy, a man who deemed her mother and sisters classless and little better than trash would not help her to support them otherwise. Her father would be rolling in his grave right now, but she – well, she was giving up propriety, love, and her freedom for her family regardless – why not add her integrity to the mix?

"I reconsidered," she stated simply.

He did not move. "Why?"

"Can a lady not change her mind?"

"Unusual, considering you had made your low opinion of my character so very clear."

"Then consider my opinion of your character now far higher." The words left a sour taste in her mouth. To her surprise, he gave a low, caustic laugh – if such a bleak sound could even be characterized as such – clasping his hands together as he faced her at last.

She stared.

There were lines around his eyes that definitely had not previously existed, and the dark circles surrounding them were not at all mere products of the lighting. The sculpted features appeared haggard, almost, little creases around his mouth and between his brow that spoke of too many frowns and not enough laughter. His cheekbones, always aristocratic, appeared more pronounced than ever, a testament to the thinning of his face.

The last three years may not have been good to her, Elizabeth realized, antipathy momentarily forgotten, but neither had they been good to _him_.

"I am afraid that is not enough, Miss Elizabeth. I am not the same man I was three years ago – I was married, you understand."

Brown eyes widened as they settled on the previously-unnoticed plain gold band on his left hand.

"Anne passed away not eleven months ago," he said in response to her silent query. A sardonic smile she did not quite understand touched his lips. "I suppose you will offer your condolences now?"

A genuine twinge of compassion tugged at her. She, too, had lost someone recently – and this man, no matter how disagreeable, had obviously felt the loss keenly.

"I do not believe you want them, and I will not pretend to know the lady in question, but – " she hesitated, searching for the right words – "I am truly sorry for your loss."

A glimmer of something flared in those unfathomable eyes. They softened slightly. "Thank you. But I hope you understand I am no longer interested in a wife."

_No longer interested in a wife_.

Something collapsed at last inside, with the strain of knowing her father, with his dry wit and silent support, was gone forever, with the memory of their humiliating eviction by the Collinses, with the irrefutable evidence that _she had failed_.

The numbness suited her well.

"It is too late for a carriage," she heard him saying as if from a great distance away. "I will have a room arranged for you to stay the night."

"That is very considerate of you," said a voice she recognized after a moment as her own. "I hope it isn't any trouble."

"Not at all."

She swallowed. Determined to avoid staring more than was proper at the hollow of his throat, tanned skin exposed by his lack of a cravat, to maintain her composure any way she could, she reached for the cup of tea at the same time he gripped the glass of port. Their arms collided, and the glass slipped from his grasp, shattering on the hardwood floor with a loud crash.

Her cheeks flamed. "I'm so sorry – "

The sentence was interrupted by the unmistakable wail of a child in the distance. Elizabeth jerked toward the source of the sound, staring uncomprehendingly down the dark corridor.

Mr. Darcy stood abruptly. "My son," he said tightly, as if it was more information than he wanted to give, then strode down the hall. Rising to her feet, Elizabeth hurried after him. It was her fault, after all; she had awakened the child – _he had a son_ –

He burst into the nursery, Elizabeth on his heels. In a fluid, practiced movement, he picked up the crying bundle, shushing his heir in a way that distinctly made Lizzy feel as if she was intruding on an intimate family moment. She could make out only a mop of dark hair and pudgy, flailing hands in the darkness that refused to be calmed.

She watched as Mr. Darcy's jaw clenched in frustration as the child wouldn't quiet after the first few minutes, continuing to cry out until she could bear it no longer –

"Let me," she said quietly.

His throat worked as if he was going to refuse, the tightness around his eyes signaling repudiation. She had overstepped, she knew, broken the rules of respectability first by arriving alone to a gentleman's residence at this hour, then by invading the sanctuary of his son's nursery.

To her shock, he reluctantly placed the boy in her waiting arms.

The weight was warm, delightful, fitting just right as if meant to be there. She had handled babies before, but never had she felt quite like _this _– this indescribable heat from somewhere deep inside, this strange conception of rightness that flowed through her veins. A pair of bright blue eyes blinked at her.

"Shhh," she murmured, rocking him back and forth. "Shhh. You're safe. Your papa's here to take care of you, darling. Everything will be alright." The soothing words continued to spill out, even as she became aware of Mr. Darcy's piercing eyes on her as she cradled his son, until at last the baby hushed and she set him down with a silly smile on her face that she didn't even know she could wear.

Then, in the black of the nursery, hearing only the measured breaths of Mr. Darcy and her own hectic inhalations, did she finally realize the enormity of her presumption.

She had barged into this man's home, demanded marriage, pried about his dead wife, broken his glass of port, and grabbed his son. She closed her eyes, cheeks aflame. No wonder he was not interested – had she been less graceless, might her family have avoided a fate on the streets when their friends' charity inevitably wore out?

"Mr. Darcy, I apologize – "

"You put him back to sleep," he said flatly, speaking over her. "No one can quite manage to do that, and you do it in minutes the first time he sees you."

How to respond to that?

"That offer you spoke of – it is renewed. I will have a special license for us tomorrow."

He could not mean – her hands balled into fists at her side, heart rate speeding. She dared not hope.

"We should be married in two days time," he continued. "A grand ceremony is unnecessary." He turned to exit.

_Married._

"Wait," she called after him, recovering from her paralysis. "What changed your mind?"

A pause.

"I may not need a wife, but George needs a mother."

And with that, he left her quite alone in the darkness.

* * *

A/N: So I know I have Vegas going as well, but I just couldn't help trying my hand at Regency when this plot bunny came to mind. Regardless, I will be updating both stories...

Anyway, please tell me what you think via leaving a **review**! Constructive criticism is loved and appreciated - I haven't quite decided whether to continue this or not.

As always, thanks for reading!

Saelia


	2. Light Wind

_**Tempest**_

* * *

**II.**** Light Wind**  
_to carry things away  
_

**-~O~-**

It was the trill of birdsong that woke her. She drifted in a cloud of spider-silk; she hadn't ever remembered her bed being so soft. Blearily rubbing her eyes, she felt the gentle touch of sunlight on her skin before her eyelids fluttered open and rays of it dominated her vision, the calm after a storm.

She blinked. The sunlight dissipated to reveal a luxurious, red-paneled room that was decidedly _not _the quarters she had shared with Jane at Longbourne.

And with that realization, her memories of the night before crashed into her much like the violent gales she'd braved at Mr. Darcy's doorstep.

Her breath hitched as she pushed herself out of bed, unwilling to rest in the luxurious mattress that was not her own any longer than was necessary. She leaned against the mahogany dresser, somehow feeling drained and exhausted despite just waking up. _Married_. To the man who had proposed by alternatively speaking of an emotion he had never shown and insulting her, to the man who had stolen away her favorite sister's happiness, and to the man who no longer had any interest in her other than to serve as a nursemaid to his son.

Full lips curled into a bitter smile. Not, she thought wryly, that she was any better; if anything, she was more mercenary than he. There was no use in pretending otherwise. She married him for his money and nothing else, and, furthermore, she was willing to deceive him, to pretend that her opinion of him had changed over three years of reflection, in order to do so.

Once, she had vowed to marry for affection. Not so long ago, love and honesty had taken precedence in her mind over worldliness. Circumstances – Papa's untimely death, Mr. Collin's surprising vindictiveness, the Gardiners' misfortune, her family's impending penury – had destroyed that Elizabeth, and this woman that stared back at her in the bureau mirror – the woman with the empty eyes and unsmiling mouth – was what remained.

A knock sounded at her door. She jerked away from the dresser, suddenly very aware that she was only in a thin chemise, her black dress nowhere to be found. "Who is it?"

"Katie, ma'am," came the muffled voice from the other side of the thick oak wood. "Mr. Darcy asked me to bring some gowns over for you to choose from."

Elizabeth flushed as she walked to open the door. So he _had _noticed the state of her dress, last night. She desperately hoped that he did not ask if she wished to send for her possessions – which amounted to nothing, after pawning her brooch for passage on a stagecoach.

A short, slightly plump girl with honey-colored hair curtsied as best she could with a stack of flowing dresses in her arms. "Where might I put these, miss?"

"The bed is fine," Elizabeth replied absently, staring at the garments. All of good, solid make, in black rather than pastels – so he had noticed she was in mourning, too. She chose the plainest, a simple muslin affair instead of brocaded silks and taffetas. "To whom do these dresses belong?"

"Why, Miss Darcy, of course. Begging your pardon, miss, but she's a few hairs taller than you – some pins might do the dress some good."

"That would be appreciated," Elizabeth said, gasping slightly as Katie yanked at the laces of her corset with nimble fingers. "Miss Darcy – is she here at Pemberley?"

"Visiting friends in London at the moment."

Perhaps it was ill of her, but she couldn't help but feel relieved that the sister whom Mr. Wickham had described as so proud was not present. She could barely deal with Mr. Darcy's cold hauteur as it were; she could not imagine staving off Miss Darcy's disapproval as well.

"Hold still – begging your pardon, ma'am, but I'll prick you otherwise."

Elizabeth stopped her restless fidgeting as Katie adjusted her hemline. Although, more concerning than the extra few inches without the pins to hold it in place was the too-tight bust area. She bit her lip.

"The gown – it's not indecent, is it?"

"From what I've seen, the style's all the rage in London." The maid yanked the brush through her unruly curls; she winced. "Oh! I nearly forgot. Mr. Darcy would like to see you in his study when you are presentable."

"Of course," Elizabeth replied through numb lips. _If he had changed his mind_ – for once, she understood how Mother's nerves might truly ail her constitution. She rose to her feet. "The study, you say?"

"On the first floor, ma'am, to the right of the stairs."

"Thank you."

The size of the manse was staggering; it was a longer walk than she had anticipated to reach the study. If nothing else, Elizabeth thought dryly, exercise would not be lacking if she were to live here.

"…married in two days time," a voice drifted through the door. "It reeks of scandal."

The impatient reply, she recognized, was Mr. Darcy's. "Do you truly believe that waiting any longer would be _less _of a scandal? When the news spreads that she stayed the night in the home of an unmarried man without any lady to chaperone?"

"I suppose." A brief moment of silence. "Then you are determined to do this? Even after what happened with Anne?"

Mr. Darcy's tone could have frozen water. "You overstep, Arthur."

"My apologies."

When it became clear that nothing further would be said, Elizabeth rapped her knuckles against the door, feeling faintly guilty for eavesdropping. A creak of hinges sounded. Immediately, she felt those piercing gray eyes on her – their weight tangible against her skin, scourging and peeling off each layer to leave her terribly raw and exposed.

_Fraud_, they seemed to accuse. _Fortune hunter_. _Trollop. _Whore.

She shuddered. It was not because of the draft.

But none of those things sounded when he spoke. His voice was cool, measured and precise like a lump of glass shined a thousand times until not a single ripple of emotion remained. "Miss Bennet, may I introduce Mr. Arthur Lewis, the estate manager of Pemberley. Lewis, Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

Mr. Lewis cast her a sharp look, but bowed nevertheless as she automatically sank into a shallow curtsey. The deep grooves in his craggy face only darkened as he straightened and turned to Mr. Darcy. "I will be going, then."

Startled at his rudeness, Elizabeth watched Darcy give a curt nod of dismissal. The door slammed shut. The elaborate bronze clock on the opposite wall sounded extraordinarily loud in the tense quiet that remained.

"Please, have a seat."

She was grateful for the offer, sinking into the hard mahogany chair; her legs had been trembling underneath her skirts. His desk was massive. An ocean dividing them, it seemed.

Hesitantly, she breached the silence first. "Did I do something to offend Mr. Lewis?"

At last, a hint of motion in those marble planes, a slight thinning of his lips that indicated he was a man of flesh and blood rather than another stone rendition of Michelangelo's David. "No. His reaction has little to do with your actions, and it will not happen again – you will be mistress of Pemberley and respected as such."

_Mistress of Pemberley. _She breathed deeply, pushing down the rising nerves that arose at even the words. "That concerns me," she confessed. "As far as Pemberley goes – it is very beautiful, but I admit I know very little about managing a household of this scale and even less about the society." Full lips curled into a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Actually, I'm afraid I'll be quite the country bumpkin."

A furrow formed between Mr. Darcy's strong brows. "You will learn, soon enough. Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Morris will be here to assist you in household tasks. As far as society goes – your manner will do well enough. It is, from what I remember, relatively pleasing."

The words were flatly delivered, even taciturn, but Lizzy could not prevent the flush rising in her cheeks – the scent of primroses in the air, the heated intensity in his voice, the pounding of her own heart – her carriage must have been more than _relatively pleasing _to have induced such a proposal from him.

And she was capitalizing on it even now. She swallowed, hard. "I very much hope so," she murmured – then, meeting those penetrating grey eyes daringly, almost defiantly, chin tilted up as she gave him the only absolute honesty she could, a hint of the old fire flashing in her dark eyes – "I will do my absolute best to be a credit to your name."

After all, it was the least she could do. The guilt gnawing at her lifted infinitesimally at her resolution – but not nearly enough to shake the uneasiness deep within her.

He nodded stiffly, dispassionately, longer fingers drumming steadily against wood to echo the pounding of her heart. "I appreciate the sentiment. In that vein – of your new role – I called you here to inform you of some of your duties."

Something reflexively inside her bristled at his high-handedness. She inhaled deeply – she owed him her patience, she reminded herself – and plastered a teasing smile on her face. "You speak so sternly that I find myself apprehensive. Is there at all a chance that these are tasks that I will enjoy?"

"My sister, Georgiana, is long overdue for her London debut – however, she needs a female relative to sponsor and chaperone her in society," he stated flatly, ignoring her question. "I hope that you can establish yourself this year to the ton this year, and launch her season the next."

"I – I'm simple country gentry. I know _nothing _about the ton – "

"Social conventions can be taught."

He opened a ledger, eyes skimming its contents. Pinpricks of red showed on her cheeks at his total dismissal of her concerns. Enough was enough – he wasn't even showing her the most basic politeness of fake attention. "Thank you, sir," she snapped, "for your willingness to show me the ways of the civilized."

_That _made him look up.

His gaze traveled over her, almost determinedly _not _lingering on her décolletage, instead choosing to search her face. For some reason, that look – as if he could see deep inside her, past the layers of easy laughter and false comportment – made goosebumps rise on her skin; she suddenly felt too warm in the black muslin.

Whatever he was searching for, he didn't seem find. He smiled sardonically, an expression she'd never seen him wear before, but suited this even more taciturn version of him in a way she did not like.

"And _there _is the Miss Elizabeth Bennet I remember."

It was not a compliment. Anger welled within her. "The one whom you proposed to?"

She had meant for it to wound. Instead, other than a slight tightening around his eyes, his face closed off until it reached utter impassivity. "The one who refused me. I admit this change of heart perplexed me – but I see that your heart is the same as ever."

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

Something unfathomable played across those sculpted features.

"No," he said at last. "Not at all. Is there anyone you would like invited to the wedding?"

_Guests_. A lump rose in Elizabeth's throat – what to do? She could not imagine the most important day of her life without her family and friends around her – and yet, he did not know of their circumstances, nor could she tell him without revealing that she was marrying him for his money and jeopardizing what was to be her family's only source of income. To her irritation, her vision misted slightly, and she felt the first sting of tears.

"No," she said, turning away slightly so he couldn't see that her eyes were too bright with unshed tears. "No one."

Hiding her face as she was, she missed the clenching of his square jaw, the way his knuckles tightened around the pen he held until it was in danger of snapping, before his face hardened and he rose to see her out.

"Very well. In the meantime, I suggest you look to a wardrobe – there is a dressmaker in the village. Mr. Lewis has already set up an account and allowance for you. It would send a positive message to the tenants if you were to look well."

"Of course," Elizabeth said numbly, stepping towards the door. She was already a few feet down the hall when she heard him call to her:

"Don't wear black."

* * *

In the end, Elizabeth chose to wear lavender.

At first, she'd been stunned – irate, even, that he had presumed to dictate that she leave off mourning the man who'd been everything to her in her childhood, her steadfast father, with his biting wit and sharp intelligence.

Then she realized that Mr. Darcy had not even asked her the reason for which she wore black.

It made things easier, she rationalized. This way she did not feel compelled to lie, or to tell half-truths. And it was of no difference to her whether or not he cared enough to ask. It didn't matter, _really_.

The resentment that seeped up within her despite her best efforts to quell it had _nothing _to do with that. Nor did her irrational urge to drape herself in midnight crepe in defiance of his command. But when confronted with the seamstress – Mrs. Bell, a pretty, fresh-faced young woman only just married and full of zest for life – Elizabeth could not withstand the other woman's wide-eyed enthusiasm for the pale silk.

She consoled herself with the fact that it was still the colors of half-mourning, and that it would only be for a day; besides, she was breaking with tradition by marrying only days after her father's death, regardless. What was one more flouting of everything she had ever known and wanted?

It was times like this – moments that had come frequently in the last three days, when the sky seemed like it would never deviate from its monotonous empty bleakness and she felt like a mere shell, hollow, an earthly extension of the flimsy gray clouds – that she stared at the rubbing of her letter stamp she'd made, clinging to it in the palm of her hand until it was rumpled and beginning to crack. The envelope she'd dropped off right after she'd ordered her dress; within it, she enclosed fifty pounds from her new account for her family, with a promise of more on the way. In the unlikely event that Mr. Darcy asked, she would claim that her gowns needed alterations.

Truly, though, Elizabeth doubted he would even notice.

But now she was standing here in the chapel in front of at least a hundred guests – none of whom she recognized – beside her silent groom, dolled up impeccably in a long, flowing silk dress and careful application of powder to hide the listlessness in her face, still clutching the etching of the stamp in her right hand as if it would somehow lend her strength. She could do this. Sign her freedom away. She'd resigned herself to it – she _must _resign herself to it.

Her heart came alive again, hammering as the clergyman began to read their vows. She knew she was supposed to keep her gaze lowered and demure – that was what decorum demanded – but she couldn't help sneak a peek at the cold, handsome features of the man beside her, wondering what he was thinking behind that unfathomable expression. She still found it unbelievable that he had accepted her offer. He could do so much better than her – was he regretting his decision now?

The minister, a man of at least his sixties with graying hair and warm eyes, shifted so his words were directed to Mr. Darcy. "Will you, Fitzwilliam Darcy, love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all others, keep only to her as long as you both shall live?"

"I shall," Darcy said gravely – entirely too serious for a statement that was little more than a farce, considering whatever he'd felt for her died long ago. Caught by a sudden, strange sense of amusement, Elizabeth's lips quirked as she expected lightning to strike the church at any moment.

The minister turned to her. "And will you, Elizabeth Bennet, obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all other, keep only to him as long as you both shall live?"

She swallowed. "I shall."

"Then I now pronounce you man and wife."

As she flung her bouquet of brilliantly colored wildflowers into the air, she accidently lost grip of her etching of the letter. The guests cheered. Even Mr. Darcy wore a small smile, as if he could no longer contain himself.

But Elizabeth saw none of that. Her eyes remained fixed to the tiny paper fluttering in the air as it sailed away on the wind, along with something indescribable that she was sure she would never be able to find again.

* * *

**A/N:** I was completely _blown away _by the response to this story. Thanks so much to everyone for their support. I wanted to quickly address a few questions:

First, I'm in the midst of a rather busy year of school, so I apologize if updates are slow. I want to make this story the absolute best it can possibly be, which involves a bit more editing and deliberation than my usual writing. Second, yes, I'm going to continue updating Vegas as well - don't worry, these two stories will remain my only projects for quite a while! Finally, I very much appreciate constructive criticism - as well as all of your feedback. Please **follow, favorite, and/or review** - all of your questions regarding the backstory (wtf happened during those three years?) will be explained soon!

Yours,

Saelia


	3. Winter Sun

_**Tempest**_

* * *

**III. Winter Sun**  
_a curtain of lukewarm heat  
_

**-~O~-**

The candles might have swept the room with a warm glow, but they failed to make any impact on the chill in her bones. She shivered. Although she was dressed in a thin silk nightgown, hemmed with lace and embroidered with white flowers for purity as was the custom, the cold she felt did not stem from her surroundings.

It came from the waiting.

At last, the light padding of footsteps signaled his arrival. Her grip tightened on the pillow beside her. She did not look up from the book lying open on her lap; at the same time, she also could not focus on the printed black letters, all of which seemed to float into a jumbled mess in front of her eyes.

"Mrs. Darcy," came the low velvet of his voice. It took her a moment to realize he meant her.

"Husband," she replied, the word rolling off her tongue in an entirely foreign manner.

There was a long silence. Elizabeth wondered if he, too, could hear the furious pounding of her heart, to her ears echoing so loudly within the confines of the dark blue walls. What did he expect of her? She had heard stories, and her mother had mentioned what would come in the night: a task to be endured, distasteful but also not entirely uncomfortable after that first pain. Still, with Mr. Darcy…

Unable to bear the tension any longer, she lifted her gaze.

He sat fully-dressed on the side of the bed, observing her, although observing was too paltry a word to describe it – the correct terminology would be more like devouring. Those eyes – usually so hard and cold – drank in every part of her body, shining like quicksilver in the torchlight, as if he wanted to reach out and yank her towards that well-muscled chest. Something heated and tingling pooled at the bottom of her stomach at the very thought. Too flustered to read further, she closed her reading with a gentle snap.

The sound jolted Mr. Darcy out of his reverie. He shook his head slightly, the ever-present crease in his forehead deepening.

"You're trembling."

To her shock, Elizabeth found that she was; her hands shook even as she clasped them together. Embarrassed, she willed them to hold steady. She'd always prided herself on _not _being one of the more vapid, faint-headed females in Meryton. Now, more than ever, she could not afford to lose that strength.

"It's nothing." The little shake in her voice at the end of the sentence horrified her. Her nails dug into the cotton-bound spine of the novel hard enough to leave indentations. "I just find myself tired."

He rose fluidly to his feet and began to douse the candles. "It's been a long day."

Elizabeth watched as he stifled the pinpricks of starlight, one by one, until they were left in the pitch black. She was surprised when she did not hear the rustling of the sheets beside her. As her sight acclimated to the darkness, she found him staring out the window, the silhouette of his broad shoulders and trim hips illuminated by the faint glow of the moon.

When she'd stood there earlier, she'd seen the shimmering waters of the pond and wide expanse of trees, red and gold and impossibly lovely with all the hues of autumn. She was _not _curious about him – had no interest in him – but she could not help but wonder what he saw now, at night, with the world enveloped in the dearth of color that was night. Could he still distinguish the beauty of Pemberley in the grays left behind?

He shifted, the aristocratic profile caught arrestingly by moonlight. She realized she had voiced her question aloud and was grateful that the blackness hid her blush.

"I can always see Pemberley's virtues. But the night has a way of highlighting its faults."

Elizabeth's eyebrows rose at the unexpected response. "From what I saw – " _from what I thought of you_ – "Pemberley has no faults."

"No?" He chuckled, but the sound had a bitter ring to it. "Then you have not been to the garden. I assure you, there are many."

She tilted her head in bemusement. "The gardens appeared wonderful when I walked through them."

"I meant the rose garden. It's closed from the rest of the grounds – you can only see it from this window, and only then when the sun is down; otherwise the pond blinds one's vision."

_Roses_. They had roses at Longbourne: red roses, pink roses, white roses, climbing roses, wall roses, a sea of fragrance. Jane was the one with a gift for cultivating them, but they were Father's idea –

Before she was conscious of her movements, she had stood and walked towards the window, craning her neck and almost pressing her nose into the glass pane. Outside, the pond shimmered as usual, but no longer reflected the brilliance of the sun; in that absence, a small patch of land near the shore became visible to the eye. It was not what she had pictured. Instead, from what she could make out, it was a mess of brambles and overgrown shrubs, not a rose in sight. Yet the plot did not convey wildness; it was too small and perfectly hemmed in for that. It only showed neglect. Abruptly, a wave of melancholy crashed over her.

The accusing question was out of her mouth before she could stop it. "Why is it like this?"

Another long pause. Darcy's eyes did not leave the bramble patch.

"Anne wanted it this way," he said at last.

His voice was oddly devoid of inflection for one speaking of a spouse who'd only passed away not a year ago. The way he said her name sounded almost rehearsed. Elizabeth frowned in puzzlement. "Why – "

With a sudden movement, he yanked the curtains shut. "Goodnight," he stated stiffly, striding back towards the bed.

Hours later, she lay awake, still waiting, but he never moved to touch her.

* * *

Her fingers closed around a glass of cool water, its misty surface enormously soothing on her skin, like a fresh breeze on a too-warm day. The chill lent momentary clarity to her fatigue-fogged mind. She had not rested that night.

He, on the other hand – she felt a faint rush of bitterness – had slept like a log.

"Mrs. Darcy?"

The speaker gave her a bland smile that emphasized her round cheeks, chipmunk-like features carrying more rouge than existed in the entirety of Elizabeth's admittedly negligible cosmetics collection.

"My apologies, Mrs. Semple," murmured Elizabeth, "I must admit I don't know the woman in question, so I cannot comment on the appropriateness of Mrs. Simpson's gown."

Her other guest, a tall, elegantly-dressed brunette, tittered. "Impossible! My dear, _everyone _knows of the scandalous nature of Mrs. Simpson's gown – or the scandalous nature of Mrs. Simpson in general, really."

As the two exchanged covert knowing looks and giggles behind their pristine white gloves, Elizabeth fought the onset of a headache. She had not imagined she would be called upon to play hostess quite so soon, nor that her neighbors would be so absolutely asinine. Not to mention that Mr. Darcy was nowhere to be found. It was not that she desired his presence, but she could not help her irritation at the task of entertaining Mrs. Semple and Mrs. Knight being foisted upon her.

It did not help that all they spoke of was the latest gossip from London, of which Lizzy was painfully ignorant of.

"Her bodice! So lowly cut! I was terribly afraid of an unfortunate accident."

"Not everyone was opposed to the idea," sniffed Mrs. Knight. "That rascal of a lover she has was just _waiting _for the neckline to slip."

"Abigail!" The exclamation was made in a transparently artificial affectation of modesty. The aforementioned woman set down her porcelain teacup with a light clink.

"Don't play naïve. The entirety of the _ton _is privy to the identity of the mistress of the marquess now that he has been seen leaving her townhouse at odd hours. I cannot imagine what the poor marchioness is going through – Mrs. Darcy, darling, are you sure you prefer water?"

"I am." Elizabeth's temples throbbed far too much for either tea or conventions. Besides, she had a feeling that in her present state of mind, no matter how restorative, anything warm would make her fall asleep at the table.

Mrs. Knight eyed her curiously. The glint in her jade green eyes reminded Elizabeth of that in a cat's at the discovery of a nearby mouse's feeble hind leg. "You appear a little pale. Is everything alright?"

"Just tired, thank you for your concern."

"How strange."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's nothing," murmured the brunette. Her painted lips settled into a thin line of feigned sympathy. "It's just – that's so like something Anne would have said, isn't it, Clara?"

"Why, yes, now that you mention it," said Mrs. Semple, blonde eyebrows lifting so high they almost touched her hairline. "She was always struggling with her weak constitution, the poor thing, but she was never so tired as she was during her marriage. I can't help but think that Mr. Darcy – "

"_Clara_."

The low warning from Mrs. Knight silenced the other woman. Suddenly aware that she had said too much, Mrs. Semple straightened the lace cuff of her gown and gave a nervous laugh. "My apologies! How I do run on!"

"No need to be sorry, Mrs. Semple." Aware that she was being watched like a hawk by Mrs. Knight, Elizabeth pasted a gracious smile on her face. "The heat is bringing out the worst of us all."

"Yes," Mrs. Semple agreed hastily, grateful for the out offered, "it certainly does feel more like July than October, doesn't it?"

The conversation had safely been redirected to the weather. Some of the tension left Elizabeth's shoulders. It wasn't long after that she was able to politely send the ladies on their way and retire to her rooms on the pretext of not feeling well.

As soon as she was able to, she sank into her mattress. _Their _mattress. But she was too exhausted, too drained, too _empty _to wonder that their marriage remained unconsummated, or that he was actively avoiding her, or that her mother and sisters had yet to write her back, or even the strangeness that pervaded every mention of her predecessor as Mr. Darcy's wife.

Elizabeth Darcy née Bennet simply wrapped her arms around the silk pillows and slept.

* * *

The first thing she noticed was that she was swathed in blankets. Too many of them.

The second was that she was burning up.

"You're awake, I see."

She opened her eyes at the sound of that calm, collected voice and waited for the world to blur back into focus. When it did, she found him sitting in the corner sofa, long legs propped up on a nearby chair, Aristophanes' _The Clouds _in his lap. A candle burned nearly to a stump sat on the bedside table. It illuminated his face, highlighting not only the sharp planes and patrician features but also a set of ridiculously thick, full lashes. Feminine lashes, on anyone else. How had she not noticed them before?

An impatient tap of his foot startled her back into sanity. God's mercy, she was admiring Mr. Darcy's _eyelashes_.

She pushed into a sitting position against the headboard, freeing herself of the many quilts and relishing the feeling of cool air against her skin. "What time is it?"

"About one in the morning. You've been sleeping for over thirty hours."

_Thirty?_ "That's not possible," she said, but not without a trace of uncertainty.

He arched a brow, amused. "I was equally disbelieving until I witnessed it. Trust me, it is."

To have slept for more than a day – "Why did no one wake me?"

"You looked so peaceful in your sleep that no one had the heart."

"But the household – and the callers – I remember someone mentioned something about the Fairchilds coming for tea – not to mention George –"

"All of that can wait." For the first time since she had come to his door sopping wet – or perhaps for the first time since she'd ever known him – his brow furrowed at her, his expression stern. "I don't find you inclined to laziness, and I assumed that you needed rest. I will not have another case of sickness attributed to my negligence."

"I'm _fine_," Elizabeth stated sharply. Too sharply. She did not want to argue – but his arrogance, his belief that he knew what was best for her, grated on her sensibilities. She took a deep breath that expanded her lungs to the fullest and imagined her irritation flooding out of her. _He is simply concerned. That is both unexpected _and _kind. _Perhaps she was being unfair –

"It hasn't escaped my attention that two nights ago, you were trembling; last night you essentially fainted. And I have never seen you this pale. You are _not _'fine.'"

Any thoughts of being the unreasonable one vanished. Always he was the one with the best judgment. The one who made choices. Like when he was congratulating himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, having been kinder to Bingley than he was to himself.

"You know nothing about me," she said in heated tones. "I am _not _ill, just tired. Nor am I one to let go of responsibilities. There is no need to concern yourself so with the minute details of my health. You married me for George's sake, sir."

There was a sort of rising anger in the low, controlled nature of his voice, the set of his jaw, the burning in those eyes of molten silver. "I may have married you for George – but, pray tell me, Mrs. Darcy, for I have struggled hard with this question for the past few days, why did you marry _me_?"

_That _hit hard.

_Because of your money. Because I was terrified my sisters would starve in the slums of London. Because you were my best hope._

She remained silent.

As the minutes passed, his visage grew colder, the fire frosting over with a deep-seeded layer of ice. She felt something inside her shiver, her mouth trying to form words but not knowing what to say. _I love you _was blatantly false. _I care for you _was little better. _Your checking account _would be honest, but she could not imagine how he would react. Would he strike her in rage? Remain indifferent – she was no more than a member of the staff in his opinion? Leave her? She could not have him do that – she needed money for her family.

At moments like this, she truly hated herself.

"I – I can't say."

It may have been true, but it left her feeling dirty inside, like there were oil stains and filth that would never come out. He stared at her as if he could see them. As if he could bore into _her._

She wished he wouldn't look at her like that, because she did not believe he would like what he found and had no wish to see it reflected his eyes.

And then his lips curled into a faint, ironic smile, although the corners of his eyes were still too tight for humor and the rage had merely given way to hardness. "It doesn't matter. I will not make the mistake of concerning myself with your welfare again."

"That's not – I – "

"Goodnight, Mrs. Darcy."

He left her, then, alone in their bedroom except for a familiar feeling she distinctly recognized as guilt.

* * *

**A/N:** Bit of a block with _Vegas _at the moment, so I thought I might as well churn this out. As usual, thanks for all the feedback! I promise questions regarding the Bingleys, Gardners, etc. will eventually be answered, as well as those about Anne. And, as a warning, there _will _be angst. Hopefully not terribly gloomy angst (I realize that these first three chapters have been slight downers). But angst.

As always, thank you for reading, and please **review**! I greatly appreciate feedback in all of its forms, whether criticism or encouragement.

-Saelia


	4. First Drops

_**Tempest**_

* * *

**IV. First Drops**  
_cool against one's skin  
_

**-~O~-**

Elizabeth walked briskly back from the village, relishing each breath of crisp November air. It had become routine to hand her letters to the post boy in person every Sunday morning. This one was no exception.

She was, however, in more of a rush to return than usual. George had been fussing when she'd left. That in itself had been unusual. George was a remarkably easy baby. But the mail service operated on a schedule, and she'd regretfully left him to the care of one of the maids.

Lost in thought, she collided with a flurry of lavender.

"I'm so sorry!" Mortified, Elizabeth reached out with a gloved hand to help her victim up. "Are you alright?"

"Perfectly so, other than my pride." The young woman moved to brush the dust off her wool coat and winced. "Spoke too soon. Regardless, I suppose we're past the stage of formal introductions – I'm Miss Felicity Trent."

"Mrs. Darcy."

The other woman smiled. It lit up the entirety of her face. "A pleasure. I'm rarely blessed with the occasion to encounter a lady with such a mean elbow jab, intentional or not."

"Or cursed with such incorrigible clumsiness."

"Don't worry about it, really. It's my fault for walking into you, too, and I fall so often myself that this is merely another drop in the bucket. Besides, it's given me an excuse to speak to the mysterious Mrs. Darcy herself – you're the talk of the county."

Elizabeth raised a brow. She was not unaware that her hasty marriage would spur gossip – but nor had she thought the talk would last so many weeks. "Does the county have nothing better to speak of?"

"No," Miss Trent stated cheerfully. "You're famous for being elusive during the short calls you pay, and for being equally so when people return them. It's the reason I never left _my _calling card."

"I didn't realize that I was such an enigma."

"It's probably not even _you_, really. But the previous Mrs. Darcy didn't pay many social calls, and Mr. Darcy has become rather reclusive himself. You're just the latest in the whole saga."

"The saga?"

Miss Trent winked. "Oh, nothing concrete, of course. All speculation. But there _are_ some incredible rumors floating around. Miss Rosamund Fletcher for one is quite convinced that you're a magnificent heiress whom Mr. Darcy married to keep Pemberley from ruin, while Miss Lisa Turner firmly believes you to be a scullery maid in disguise."

Once, Lizzy would have laughed at that until tears streamed from her eyes. Even now she could not help but smile faintly.

"If it helps, I can assure you I am neither."

"As if I needed it. _I _am certain you are a lost princess hiding from a malicious uncle set on preventing you from inheriting your rightful throne."

"Royalty – now you've superseded even heiresses."

Miss Trent giggled. "I know, I know. Mother always tells me to stop reading those sensational penny novels of Mrs. Radcliffe's, but I can't help it. With plots like _that _– all that's missing is the dashing knight to save the princess, really – it's entirely too difficult not to. I'm an aspiring writer myself, though, so I can rationalize it by considering it studying the competition." She wrinkled her pert nose. "Come to think of it, I _can _write a better novel – a child, for instance, a secret baby prince who is not really a prince, just that everyone _believes _he is a prince – "

_Children. George_.

Elizabeth's eyes widened. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten.

"My apologies," she cut in as soon as Miss Trent paused – it wasastonishing how many words the other woman could get out in one breath – "but I must be going."

"Oh! I completely understand. I do run on at times," the blonde said ruefully. Her bright green eyes, however, lost none of their sparkle. "But please, Mrs. Darcy, _do _call tomorrow afternoon. Otherwise I shall dieof boredom having tea with Mother and her friends – 'Felicity, dear, sit straight! Felicity, do not chatter so much – it is unladylike.' Felicity this, Felicity that!"

The smile came to Elizabeth's lips with only a little beckoning, a rarity since her life had changed so drastically. There was something so irreverently cheerful about Miss Trent.

"I shall. Have a good day, Miss Trent."

"You as well, Mrs. Darcy."

With that, Elizabeth hurried back to Pemberley.

* * *

"And he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, 'I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling,'" Elizabeth read softly, gently setting the book down by the candleholder. She smiled fondly at the yawning infant – capable of understanding the words or not, he seemed to greatly enjoy the story, cooing and gurgling noisily at the beginning, then gradually drifting off into sleep. Those wide cerulean eyes finally fluttered shut.

Bending down, Elizabeth quietly blew out the flame and made her way out of the nursery.

As the days had inched by – the three weeks since she'd first come to Mr. Darcy felt more like three years – she had quickly discovered little George to be her saving grace at Pemberley. His was a face usually smiling to see her, his tantrums easily pacified, his laughter sparking a reciprocal lightness in her steps.

The same could not be said for his father.

Since their argument, they had engaged in avoidance entirely too successfully for it not to be mutual. He rose early at dawn to conduct his business and did not attend meals with her. Her inability to rest soundly meant she awakened with him no matter how silent he managed to be, but she always feigned sleep as she listened to every rustle of clothing, every soft thud. Afterwards, they performed their separate duties: she presumed he took care of the estate and various investments, although she never asked, and for her part she hosted social calls and slowly tried to familiarize herself with the running of the household. In short, they rarely saw each other at all.

In a way she was glad. She did not know what to say to him – she regretted losing her temper the last time they'd truly spoken. _So much_, she had thought wryly, _for being a good wife_.

Elizabeth was not entirely blind. In hindsight, she was aware her dislike – although that she did not think baseless – had colored his every action in her eyes. If they were ever to coexist in any semblance of contentment, that had to change. Marriage was forever. She had spoken her vows, and now there was no way out.

She shivered a little at the finality of it and quickened her pace. The end of the corridor quickly approached. _Left, _she remembered, from her first day exploring the labyrinth of Pemberley –

There was no left turn.

Elizabeth stared. She was _sure _that there was supposed to be a left to take her back to the main foyer. Lifting her candle higher to cast light on the hallway, she spun to examine her surroundings – and found she had never seen that particular bust of Achilles before in her life.

No. It wasn't possible. She could not have been as foolish as to have gotten _lost_.

Except, three equally unfamiliar rooms later, it was apparent that she had.

She sank against the wall. Both hands covered her mouth to suppress the laughter. She was _not _hysterical. Truly, she was not. But it was just too much. The man haunted her at every turn. He turned her into a shrew in his presence. He made her an imbecile in his absence. She simply could not win.

A giggle fought free despite of her best efforts to contain it. It echoed, ricocheting around the tapestry-covered walls, unbearably loud in the dead silence that pervaded this part of the house. To Elizabeth's shock, she barely recognized it. She realized that her throat-muscles felt rusty from disuse.

She had not laughed since her father passed.

It suddenly occurred to her that of all the questionable things she had done since his death, this may have disappointed him most.

_There is always laughter. Remember, from the ridiculous to the sublime is but a step_, she remembered him saying to her, only a year ago. He had been hale and hearty back then. A whole man, one who emitted quiet strength if not overt vitality.

_You must be approaching your dotage, Papa, _she had teased him_, to so misuse the words of our dear petit caporal – it is 'from the sublime to the ridiculous.'_

He had quirked an eyebrow in response. His eyes had danced with amusement in the way only Papa's could. _If it is merely a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, then wouldn't it be a single step the other way as well? _

God, how she missed him.

The same dull ache in her chest sharpened. There was a faint wetness on her cheek. When her fingers reached up to swipe it away, she was not surprised to see the sheen of tears on her skin.

She gritted her teeth and straightened. With all the internal strength she could muster, she pushed away the thoughts, although the muted pain lingered as always. She would not wallow in her grief. It had already taken her mirth – she would not let it take anything more.

Picking up her candle from the ground, she began walking. If she simply wandered, eventually she would come across one of the staff, or a room she recognized. Until then she could pretend this was an adventure. A chance to explore. She slipped into the next hall. Intending to move on, her legs carried her quickly across the Persian carpet – until she froze at the sight of the softest grey eyes she had ever seen.

She raised her light higher. It was a rendition of a boy no more than twelve. The artist's skill was displayed in each delicate stroke forming the small smile, the still-delicate nose, the already stubborn chin. Still, there was something more. An understated self-assurance in the squaring of his shoulders, perhaps, or the kindness in the curve of his lips, or even the upward slant of his gaze, as if he was dreaming of something far away. Drawn by something in her that she couldn't name, she leaned in closer to make out the inscription in the bottom right corner: _F. Darcy, William Haughton in 1796_.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. _It couldn't be._ But as she examined the portrait again, this time cutting past to the individual features themselves, she found unmistakable signs of the man she knew. The sharp jaw. The shape of the lips, full, but not feminine. The hints of diamond-sharp cheekbones.

But this mirage had none of the arrogant posture, the taciturn frown, the deep circles around his eyes. Nor did it possess the cold silence, the curt manners, the enduring gravity. What had changed? The two were impossible to reconcile. Yet, that they were the one and the same could not be denied.

Suddenly, inexplicably compelled to feel the layers of paint under her skin, to persuade herself she was not imagining it all, she reached out towards the boy's brow –

"What in God's name are you doing?"

She jumped. The candle teetered precariously in her grip as she whirled around. Stepping too quickly in her fright, she tripped on the hem of her skirt. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. Her elbows went out to brace herself for impact.

A firm hand gripped her arm, drawing her close and steadying her on her feet. She could tell he had made the motion without even thinking.

"My apologies, Mr. Darcy," she muttered, flushing a deep red. She rather wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole. "I didn't see you."

He ignored her attempt to relieve her embarrassment. This near, she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the curt line of his mouth. "The entire household is in an uproar looking for you."

There was a furious bite to his words. Bristling, Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort – then caught sight of the gaze of the boy in the portrait. The anger dimmed. She looked closer at the man. The tight frown, the intent stare – was that _worry_?

He had been concerned, she realized. _For her._

Incredibly, her heart pounded a little faster.

"Not only have I succeeded in misplacing utensils and paper at every turn, but apparently now also myself," she said self-deprecatingly, feigning lightness. "I'm sorry for any trouble."

"How did you wander into the gallery, of all places?"

"I was – distracted." As she was now. It was enormously difficult to concentrate, with his hand upon her elbow, his standing so close to her. Her face heated. She might not like him, but she could not deny that he was an attractive man. She took a deep breath to clear her head. It was a mistake. He smelled of shaving cream and sandalwood and pine needles, of clean linen and patchouli. She suddenly felt too warm.

Desperately seeking something else to focus on, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "The woman painted there. Who is she?"

He turned to follow her line of sight to a likeness of a tall woman sitting regally atop a chaise, features handsome rather than pretty."My mother." At the widening of her dark eyes, he answered her unspoken question: "She passed away when I was eighteen."

"Oh."

His eyes softened at her obvious regret for broaching the topic. "It was many years ago. I've made my peace with it."

"The time, then? It makes it better?"

"To some extent."

"Really."

He hesitated, shoulders stiff with discomfort, but plowed forward anyway. "The grief fades, although it never goes away. For some, at least. There are occasions where it's impossible to let any of it go."

She imagined the pain of Papa's absence dissipating until it became like breathing, unnoticed except on specific occasions such as his birthday, or the anniversary of his death. Like castles in the air, the concept remained just out of reach. And even if she tried to move on – what if she forgot? It had only been a matter of weeks, and already she could not remember the exact way he smiled. One day his face might vanish entirely.

The candle flame blurred. Damn it, she was _not _crying in front of Mr. Darcy. She turned her face away to hide the overly bright sheen of her eyes. Too late.

"Is something wrong?"

_No_, she meant to say. _I'm fine_. _Don't concern yourself._ But no one had asked her in the weeks since the loss finally hit her. It was all so carefully internalized out of necessity.

She'd been _so alone _at Pemberley. His inquiry – perfunctory as it might be – broke a dam.

And then she was weeping, like an idiot, hiccupping and sobbing, and all she could think of was that Papa was gone and he was never coming back. She was barely aware of Mr. Darcy gently plucking the candle from her shaking hand and pulling her to him, bracing her against his chest. He said nothing; she appreciated the lack of meaningless platitudes.

They stayed that way for a long while. She rested against him, listening to his heartbeat, until her breathing finally evened out and some semblance of rational thought returned. And then it hit her.

She'd broken down in the presence of _Mr. Darcy_. And he'd held her while she'd cried.

_And it had felt so, so good._

Awkwardly, she stepped out of his embrace. "Thank you for taking the candle." Her voice trembled at the end and she hated herself for it. "I might have inadvertently burned down this side of the manor."

"It's alright. I was never particularly fond of the east wing."

She blinked, embarrassment forgotten. Was that – a joke? She scanned his face. It was blank, polite, except for the faint amusement in those steel grey eyes – _it was a joke_.

And it was there, standing in a forgotten portrait gallery, her in her disheveled state with swollen eyes and a bright red nose, him in a jacket distinctly wet near the collar, that Elizabeth felt the first stirrings of hope.

* * *

**A/N: **For some reason this week, I could actually write - I churned out both a chapter of this and a chapter of _Vegas_. Wow. As always, thanks so much to everyone for reading and reviewing. I'm still trying to get over the level of response this story has received - it's certainly an inspiration. Hopefully, this chapter was a little less gloomy than previous ones.

And, of course, **reviews** are greatly appreciated :) Please do drop by with one!

-Saelia


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